


Ignition.

by Marinne



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: And sleeping so have mercy, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Canon Compliant, Honestly it's nothing much, I Ship It, I can't actually say there's romance, I wrote this instead of studying, M/M, Short One Shot, The seedling at least, They don't get enough love, but there is, s04e05 The Duel, so romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marinne/pseuds/Marinne
Summary: They’re so close the sparks that shoot out from Michael’s eyes feel like they singe Bonnie’s own. This boy - sulking and riding on the secondhand high of the Shelby’s good name - is made of a different sort of fire; the sort that’s inconspicuously preparing to take the world and burn it to thin little ashes, just because no one can see him coming.It’s probably the reason why he fills Bonnie with so much wonder.“I could be your friend, Mr Gray.”





	Ignition.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no warnings except for spoilers of the aforementioned episode. Aditionally, I use the word "gypsy" as they do in the show, but that doesn't make it okay to use it in real life as it is seen as derogatory. So kids just be respectful okay~

Bonnie Gold is seven years old the first time he stops to look at a boxer. Yes, he’s seen them before, but not like this: not this conscious of the taut muscles glistening, of arms that shoot out like springs, lightning-fast feet and eyes dilated with the adrenaline of a beautiful fight. He’s seen these men around before, carrying out life at camp, but he’s never stopped to stare as fists connect and blood blossoms like wildflowers on their skins, the crowd roaring for them, bellowing their names to the sun. Bonnie’s heart is captivated, beating hard, and he knows, immediately, that this is what he wants. He wants to be up there. He wants to breathe in the excitement and the tension and he wants to have his name shouted out to the heavens, so loud he’ll go deaf with it. He wants to be a boxer.

The boy is also seven years old when he loses two of his teeth to a scuffle with other boys, distant family members. It isn’t done in bad blood; they’d only been playing and there’s guilt on their faces when they help him clean his own up and return to his parents’ side. His mother is livid, spitting out curses as she takes in his bruises and the new shiny gaps in his mouth.

“It’s only a game,” Bonnie says, hissing when she presses snow to a nasty scratch above his eyebrow. “We was only playing.”

“You don’t play these games, you hear me, Bonnie?” she replies, harsh, unruly black hair falling into her face. She directs a snarl at Esmeralda when she tries to take a peek at Bonnie’s face from behind her thick skirts. “I want you clean and honest and with all your fucking teeth. Do you understand?”

Bonnie nods his head carefully because he does. He isn’t going to obey, of course, but he understands that he can’t get caught.

The Golds are down a member not long after. They burn a wagon for Bonnie’s mother and he wants to cry his heart out as the flames crackle and the adults say their words, a mixture of Shelta and English. His father is next to him. Aberama Gold cries but he’s silent, a hand tightly clasping Bonnie’s left shoulder while his other clenches his youngest daughter’s little hand. Bonnie doesn’t cry. He can hear his mother in his head, fussing, grumbling about her much-deserved peace, telling them all off for wasting their tears on her. He can hear her telling him to stand straight and tall, even if he isn’t very big at all, since he’s a Gold, and he’s got to make them all proud. More than that, though, Bonnie thinks of his ferocious mother, reduced to ashes and a memory caught in between slivers of burning air, which time will turn stale and wear down, like waves against a rock face. One day, no one will remember his mother ever existed. Bonnie nearly cries, now, but he still doesn’t, he still won’t.

Before he’s dead, he decides, he’s going to make a name for himself. So that his own memory is written down in stone and it renders him immortal.

Fast forward a few years and he’s fifteen, though he’s said he’s older, and he hears nothing of the fair’s noises beyond the blood pumping hard in his ears. He’s given them a fake name, too, since they won’t let him fight properly if they know they’ll have Aberama Gold to deal with if he gets hurt. His father’s important, commanding and a feral brute when it comes to his children. No one will take him on if they know. Bonnie is dying to prove he’s far more than just Gold’s son.

It’s all he can think about and it shows. He knows it does. His technique is off; the other man - a burly, ginger Englishman who’s been introduced as David Brent, probably twice Bonnie’s age - laughs, baits him. The man has size and strength on his side and Bonnie needs to get his head in the game if he’s going to get anything done here. Before he can, David Brent takes a swing at him. It sends Bonnie sprawling and he falls on the grass, a loud screeching in his ears. A second passes and it dies down to the sound of the crowd bursting with laughter, mockery. Someone shouts that they ought to get the kid out of the ring. Another encourages David Brent to teach him what a real man fights like. Bonnie growls, grits his teeth. He shouts that he’s not finished and suddenly catches sight of his father’s face in the sea of spectators. Aberama is shocked into silence but he won’t be for long.

Bonnie is up on his feet in a flash, arms pulled tight into his chest as he watches his adversary move towards him. He saunters, really; he’s relaxed and confident. The man has his arms poised all wrong and he’s joking with a friend. He looks at the crowd every couple of seconds so they can lock eyes. Bonnie is smaller but he’s faster and he knows where he wants to hit; the next time David Brent looks away from him he leaps forward, faster than a hare, and slams his fist just under the man’s ribs with his right hand. Under his jaw with the left. He watches, awed, as David Brent is thrown on the ground, out cold, and slowly diverts his gaze towards where he’s seen his father.

Aberama Gold purses his lips, nodding in approval, and Bonnie’s face is split by a luminous grin that the cheers from those watching only helps fuel. Today he feels like the king of the world and knows he’ll sooner _die_ than give up.

It’s this zeal and determination that keep earning him victory after victory. Bonnie trains all day, any way he can, helps his father hack down targets until he feels nothing special at the sight of the life slipping out of a man’s eyes. It’s for the money and their reputation so there doesn’t need to be glory in it, honour, art. Bonnie doesn’t enjoy it in particular and he doesn’t get the same thrill from it. His father accepts it eventually and promises him, swears on his own life, that he’ll make Bonnie a champion no matter what it takes. Aberama’s never once lied to his children so Bonnie believes him wholeheartedly and feels the excitement and anticipation well and simmer inside of him; he’s a powder keg waiting for the moment of ignition, a bullet dying to be fired, a horse longing for the fire of the racetrack.

No one is willing to fight him in the fairs anymore by the time he’s 19. It’s not a fair game, they say, since he fights like he’s got the devil in his bloodstream. His father laughs, hearty and proud, whenever he mentions it and Bonnie is pleased beyond measure, expectant, waiting.

And then the Shelbys march into their life.

It’s an opportunity like no other. Thomas Shelby is a sharp-eyed man with a mind that works accordingly, faster than the sweep of a peregrine falcon through clear mountain air. He’s got Bonnie’s father on his toes and it’s interesting to watch the way the two size each other up, comparing nerves with words unspoken and expressions steely and schooled into casual indifference. There’s no lies or deceit between them: the Shelbys watch Bonnie fight in one of their factories and they decide they can use him, his bravado, his fire, and Bonnie is willing to be used if it means he can use them in return to get his feet steady on a real ring and bathe himself in the sweet liquor of fame.

They give him a cap. Bonnie is one of them, now. It’s a funny concept, he thinks. The Peaky Blinders have made themselves up from nothing but dust and horse shit and now they’re an empire. He can all but taste a bit of their resolute victory just by wearing the simple grey thing, though he doesn’t let it fool him. He wears their cap but he isn’t a Blinder; he’s been bought, hired muscle for their war on the wops and all their other future battles. The power they wield isn’t his, which is just as well since he doesn’t want it.

There is, however, one man who is drunk on it. Bonnie can see this in his face, in the way smoky-eyed Michael Gray looks down his nose at the forest and their wooden wagons, his back to the safety of Shelby Company Ltd.’s sleek black car and the handsome, comfortable lifestyle it represents. Bonnie watches the posh city boy from slightly further away, snickering with his father’s men as Aberama talks to the boy and Polly Shelby. It’s curious that someone with his heritage should regard the Romani life with such contempt; Michael Gray may have a fancy car in the foul city run by his cousins, but here, under these trees, over these fallen leaves and bathed in this sunlight, on Gypsy turf, he’s a prince. For someone so clearly caught up about power, Bonnie can’t help but think that Michael is looking at things entirely the wrong way.

“Take your medicine,” says Polly. She hands Michael a bottle of something that Bonnie doesn’t recognise. No one’s ever landed a hard enough blow on him that their traditional healing couldn’t handle.

“I’ll take them,” Michael responds. He’s sulking. The sight of him makes Bonnie’s mouth lilt into another grin and he can’t look away. Polly says something else, as Michael steps a little further away from their car. She too is smiling, amused, and Bonnie can see her among them, in the glow of campfires, travelling on horseback through the wilderness, with so much more ease than her son.

“The healers up there will heal you much quicker.”

“Fucking witches, the lot of them.” Michael mutters it, looking ahead at the trees like he’s so much better than them all. He’s proud, tottering over the line that leads to _arrogance_ , and Bonnie can’t keep his mouth shut a moment longer.

“Show some respect, Mr Gray,” he calls out, still grinning. Michael rounds on him and their eyes lock. It’s like metal on metal, two pistol barrels staring each other down. “They have agreed to welcome you on account of your blood.”

Michael says nothing. Bonnie can feel his metallic eyes pinned like a sniper’s aim on the back of his own head as he moves away from them.

Aberama stays behind so Bonnie takes it upon himself to lead Michael to their camp. It’s not far from the road, tonight, but still deep into the forest, surrounded by beeches and willows and oak, their leaves turning from emerald green to golden brown, amber. To get to it, they follow a stream, its water frolicking over black rocks rounded by the constant flow. There’s birdsong, the scuffle of squirrels and martens. One of their men is whistling a tune for a fiddle but otherwise the forest is silent and undisturbed. Bonnie wonders what city-boy Michael thinks of it, what it makes him feel to tread an earth bound by roots that go as deep as his own.

It doesn’t take him long to discover that Michael feels nothing. No connection of any sort to his ancestors or to their wandering lifestyle. When they get to the camp, the boy limps over to the steps of what they’ve ceded to be his wagon and he sits on them, fingering his cane as he loses his gaze in the little fire they’ve got going. Michael is a sulker, and even though he does it with a blank face that begs to be taken seriously, he’s truly no better than a brooding child sent to the thinking corner.

Grey eyes catch on Bonnie every now and again, and the aspiring boxer never pretends to not have been watching him first; for they are both children, in this sense, regarding each other across the strip of no man’s land, and Bonnie’s eyes shine every time Michael sends the makings of a scowl his way. He’s like a foal eyeing a grumpy pup tied to his kennel, and he wants to bring him out to play.

It’s what he wants so it’s what he does. Once the darkness has cloaked them and the temperatures descend enough, so that the whole forest is a contrast between the sizzling embers and the crawling shadows; once everyone else is gone and it’s just him and the sulking boy, staring holes into the fire like the cold does nothing to him, the darkness around them woven from the same coal that’s inked in his pupils. Bonnie walks over and he perches against the smooth-painted wood; a magpie caught looking at something shiny that lurks beneath Michael’s haughty detachment.

“Do you plan to sit there until the Italians have all been dealt with, Mr Gray?”

Michael doesn’t even look up. Bonnie takes it as an invitation to keep talking and brings himself closer, leaning on an elbow as he shamelessly regards the other boy’s face.

“Cheer up, don’t you consider this an improvement from the hospital? At least here you can breathe.”

Bonnie’s latest chirrup wins him some attention at last, the other boy’s neck muscles shifting as he slowly lolls his head at an angle where he can just about meet Bonnie’s eyes. It’s there all over again; the danger, the thrill, the excitement at being met with someone who looks like he can kill with his gaze alone. Michael looks incredibly like Thomas Shelby when he takes his time to craft a reply, effortless yet measured, and his tone is that of utter boredom, “At least there were fucking toilets in the hospital.”

“Is that what you miss? Toilets? I took you for more of a bourgeois than that,” Bonnie remarks. It gets Michael’s eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The fire reflects in what’s visible of them, its light alternating with Michael’s own shadows. The Blinder takes Bonnie in. It’s a lazy once-over that gives nothing away but Bonnie knows anyway. He isn’t impressed with what he sees. No one is. Not until they see him move, springing faster than a snake and with enough force to knock a bull over in its maddened wake. Unlike his Shelby cousins, Michael Gray has given him no reason to want to impress him, however, so Bonnie lets it be.

“You’re Gold’s son,” Michael says. It isn’t a question; it’s a statement. “The one who wants to box.”

Bonnie smiles. “I already box. I’m going to be a champion.”

Michael doesn’t need to look him over again to get across that he doesn’t think he’ll make the cut; he merely stays quiet for a moment longer. When he speaks, there’s bitterness there, and he’s back to looking at the fire rather than at Bonnie.

“Tommy’ll rig your fights. Of course you’ll be a champion.”

The way he says it rubs Bonnie the wrong way. It’s true, but he’s got it all wrong - Bonnie is undefeated, a king among the welterweights who can knock out men twice his size. Having Tommy be his promoter is a strategic move to get him into the sport legally; Bonnie doesn’t need the fights to be fixed in order to come out of the season crowned as champion. His name will be written in history in bloody diamonds after he’s through, and he wants to say as much, but he reels his temper in and makes himself keep smiling.

“You should come and watch me fight.” Bonnie moves. He sits next to Michael. “See for yourself.”

Michael produces a little box from his pocket, carelessly drawing out a white cigarette and popping it into his mouth. It’s lit in only a matter of seconds, so that the smoke curls and coils in rings and waves around him, mist that draws out from behind his teeth. Saying nothing, he offers it - the lit cigarette - to Bonnie. It’s a clear sign of peace even if Bonnie turns it down.

“I don’t smoke. It’s not good for the ring.”

Michael shrugs. “Bet that doesn’t stop the others.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m better than them.”

This time, the Blinder smiles too; a thin perk of the lips directed at the ground through his cigarette smoke. To Bonnie it looks like approval so he’s satisfied enough to sit back and throw a glance up at the heavens. It’s a clear night. The northern star shines brighter than all the others, glimmering. Bonnie wants to say that his name will one day be written up there, burned into the sky. Instead, he tells Michael what he’s told Thomas Shelby: that this isn’t the life he wants. Wandering is in his blood but he wants to follow a different path from these people, one that will go from a ring to a cloakroom and back again. “I don’t want to be here forever,” he concludes. He’s still looking at the stars which means he can’t see Michael arrange his features into a condescending simper.

“I wonder why.”

“You don’t have many friends, do you?"

This response catches Michael by surprise. It’s apparent enough in the way he chokes out a snort that doesn’t seem to fit him, and the quiet amusement he employs, eyes firmly trained on Bonnie’s, to mutter back: “What gives you that idea?”

“I’m the only person,” says Bonnie, “who you’ve spoken to so far. You’re not very talkative and you take yourself too seriously.”

“You talk enough for us both,” Michael points out, nonchalant. Regardless, it has Bonnie grinning, leaning in even further so that the smoke from Michael’s cigarette is a thin vein between them, like the mist within a fortune teller’s crystal ball. They’re so close the sparks that shoot out from Michael’s eyes feel like they singe Bonnie’s own. This boy - sulking and riding on the secondhand high of the Shelby’s good name - is made of a different sort of fire; the sort that’s inconspicuously preparing to take the world and burn it to thin little ashes, just because no one can see him coming.

It’s probably the reason why he fills Bonnie with so much wonder.

“I could be your friend, Mr Gray.”

There’s a pause. Michael stares at him beneath eyebrows raised in aloof skepticism. He’s smart, but no amount of cleverness is enough to follow Bonnie’s marauding train of thought. “What makes you think I want a friend?”

Bonnie’s only response it to keep smiling, studying the planes of Michael’s face. The highlights on his cheekbones, the darker smudges around his eyes, the curve of his lips, the confident set of his jaw. Yes, this boy is dynamite disguised as a candlestick.

Neither of them speaks. A minute passes. Another. Finally, Bonnie stands. His hands are in his pockets as he takes a step or three away, throwing a last look behind him at a Michael Gray that hasn’t diverted his attention yet. “I’ll speak to the _witches_ ,” he informs, with extra emphasis upon the word Michael himself had used earlier, a sign of light mockery. “And see if they have anything for you tonight.”

“I have painkillers, Gold,” Michael calls after him. Bonnie waves the words away as though they’re no more consistent than the pungent chemicals oozing into the air from Michael’s cigarette; he strides away, leaves and twigs and pebbles crunching underfoot.

“Friends call me Bonnie, Mr Gray. Have a good night.”

An owl hoots to punctuate the end of a conversation written in metal, embers and smoke, and Michael follows Bonnie Gold’s sooty silhouette with his gaze until he’s far gone, hostage of the night and the bulks of labyrinthine tents and caravans of the encampment.

**Author's Note:**

> All I can say is that these two are legit shippable and their characters are so fun. And they need hella more attention since they're awesome as fuck. Also I just want them to kiss but it's late as hell so maybe another time, eh?
> 
> That aside, this season broke my heart I just hope Michael comes back soon and Bonnie is here still because I want to be queerbaited so badly...


End file.
